


the world will always welcome lovers (as time goes by)

by inherownwrite



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beatles, Casablanca References, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, THAT paris trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29576259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inherownwrite/pseuds/inherownwrite
Summary: Casablanca AU. Paris, 1940. John and Paul skywriting in the city of light.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	the world will always welcome lovers (as time goes by)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Not dead, just very busy! I've had this story rattling around my head for a while now, so I thought I'd bash out a quick one-shot and post it here. 
> 
> The author borrowed heavily from John Lennon's beautifully nonsensical “Skywriting By Word Of Mouth” as well as the film Casablanca, dir. Michael Curtiz. (She is also thinking of developing this little drabble into a longer story based on Casablanca, but cannot commit nor make any promises). I hope you all like it! xx

**Paris, 1940**

Stop. Don’t stop. Dark hair slipped through his hands, falling between his fingers. A hoarse whisper against his skin. _John._

White-knuckled against cotton sheets, a soft exhalation. A plea, a prayer. _Paul. Don’t stop._

Fingers tightened against his thighs. A muffled giggle. _Won’t._ It was one of the many promises that they made to each other in that city: promises of love, promises of light. The words they spoke to each other etched themselves into John’s brain as if Paul was carving out a place in his skull just for himself. John didn’t mind. He rather liked the thought that Paul was forever inside him, like they had shaped one another in some sort of profound, immutable way.

Stop. Don’t stop. Stop. From their hotel room, the lights of Paris beckoned like a thousand roman candles. Paul joined John at the window, two scotches in hand. “Alright, Johnny?”

John just smiled, watching the city flicker. They were outside in the streets again, rain falling in a gentle cacophony upon the cobbled road. John pulled Paul close, grinning with his leather jacket held high above his head, as if they weren’t already soaked to the skin. Paul laughed at his valiant effort, pressing his nose into the damp curve of John’s neck. “This town inspires me.” Then he was spinning off down the empty street, movement on his shoulder and a challenge on his lips. Stop. Don’t stop. John would follow him anywhere. 

Back in the hotel room, hovering over Paul’s trembling frame, John was floating. Paul was similarly gone beneath him, all pink cheeks and a shock of black hair. “Yer a mess,” John rumbled, pressing his lips gently down the curve of Paul’s stomach. 

Paul just smiled in that wicked, wide-eyed way of his, as if he knew that he had John wrapped around his finger. “Love is never having to pull yourself together,” he said cheekily. 

John grinned up at him. “Love is never having to pull yourself off.” 

_Don’t stop._ John couldn’t. 

Sitting on the patio of a Parisian cafe, Paul regarded him steadily over the straw of his third banana milkshake. John was in a rotten mood, although he couldn’t say why. Paul’s foot nudged against his own, questioning, teasing. 

“Cheer up, son,” he admonished, reaching for John’s hand. He pressed a kiss against his knuckles, heedless of prying pedestrian eyes. “We’re in Paris, and all that.”

John sneered, yanking his hand away in one aborted movement. He felt the warm press of Paul’s lips like a blister. “For now.” He stabbed his cigarette vindictively onto the metal of the table. “Just wait ‘til the Nasties start boomin’.” He knew his mouth was bitter, but he couldn’t stop. Stop. Don’t stop. 

The city bustled around them in all its unassuming splendor: handkerchiefed children skipping hand in hand, an elderly man throwing bits of bread to the pigeons, the clock of an old church chiming its noon-day announcement, as if nothing was wrong, as if the war wasn’t fast approaching its postcard-perfect city. John’s stomach rocked and roiled; he was almost nauseous from the force of his feeling. He was sitting across from Paul, and he ached. He wanted everything, and he wanted it all at once. The gentle parting of Paul’s lips consumed him. _Stop. Don’t stop. Stop._

Paul could be a mind reader when he wanted to be. Surreptitiously checking for passersby, he abandoned his milkshake and slid into John’s seat, stopping him from falling on his arse with a firm hand around his waist. His other hand caught the curve of John’s jaw like it was nothing, forcing John to meet his eyes. When he spoke his breath was warm and sugar-sweet. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

John snorted, charmed despite himself. The longer they watched each other the more John felt himself forgetting about the specter of death and carnage in favour of Paul’s patient smile, a smattering of banana milkshake painting the corner of his bottom lip. He held himself stock still as Paul angled his head down, nearing closer, closer, until their mouths were only a hairsbreadth apart. His hand felt like a brand against his side. _Stop. Don’t stop._ John whispered: “And why shouldn’t I?”

Paul’s lips broke into a grin that filled John with a sweeping tide of emotion, threatening to spill over and send them awash into the arms of the Seine. Half-hysterical in the torrent, John thought vaguely it was worth it, life and all of its obscure sufferings and loneliness, just for this time in Paris, with Paul by his side. He had never loved like this before, and doubted he ever would again. He wanted to cling onto Paris until his fingernails were torn and bloody. He wanted to grab Paul and swim until they were on an island of their own. He wanted, he wanted. 

Paul’s breath hitched, as if he could sense the pull of the water too. They blinked knowingly at each other, so close they were almost cross-eyed, and John imagined that he could see his own soul reflected in the glint of Paul’s eyes. Paul took his hand again, intertwining their fingers, and when he spoke, the words resonated in the bastard of John’s being. 

“We’ll always have Paris.”


End file.
